October came in quietly with soft skies and salted wind and took Cressida with it.
She was gone before Eloise could begin to miss her. One day they were saying goodbye on promenade, and the next, Cressida had returned to London.
Eloise left soon after with her family to Kent. It was a trip meant to "restore everyone's health and nerves" according to her mother, though it had done nothing but worsen Eloise's.
So, letters became their compromise.
Thus began the strangest "courtship" Eloise had never quite agreed to. Written in ink and restraint and delivered across counties with a flutter in her chest.
Letter from Miss Eloise Bridgerton to Miss Cressida Cowper, October the 3rd
The Rose Cottage, near Dover
My dear Miss Cowper,
I must open this letter with a grievance. I have now seen no fewer than three sheep in this countryside who bear a remarkable resemblance to your noble cliff. Do you suppose we stumbled upon an undiscovered school of naturalist abstraction? Or are the sheep simply in on the joke?
Kent is precisely as dull as I expected. My mother continues to press wild herbs into my tea and insists the air here is "fortifying." I suspect this is a subtle punishment for spending too much time with you over the summer. Or not nearly enough.
Do write back soon. I find myself in desperate need of conversation not rooted in embroidery or marriage prospects.
Yours,
— E.B.
P.S. The governess is readingEmmaaloud again. I've taken to leaving the room every time she praises Mr. Knightley. It feels like betrayal.
Reply from Miss Cressida Cowper to Miss Eloise Bridgerton, October the 6th
Cowper Townhouse, London
Miss Bridgerton,
The idea of a sheep-based conspiracy is the most thrilling news I've received all week. Please do sketch one for me. I should like to compare it to your earlier "cliff," which I've kept as a token of either genius or madness, though I've not yet decided which.
London is quiet. The Ton has largely vanished to the country, leaving behind only the desperate and the dreadfully boring. You, tragically, are both absent and unbothered. I miss our art lessons, if only for the opportunity to watch you pretend not to stare.
Write again soon. My father has begun inquiring after suitors. If you do not save me with your wit, I fear I shall be betrothed to a man who quotes Horace at breakfast.
Devotedly,
— C.C.
Letter from Miss Eloise Bridgerton to Miss Cressida Cowper, October the 11th
The Rose Cottage, (still)
Cressida,
I was unprepared for the joy of seeing your handwriting again. You know, you do not write like other people. Your letters feel like they should be read by candlelight, under suspicion. I keep rereading them in the hope they will grow less bewitching. They do not.
Kent remains intolerable. I've started reading Wollstonecraft again, which has done nothing to improve my temperament. I am, however, entirely convinced that if I stay here one more week, I shall either become a gothic heroine trapped in the attic or take up watercolours.
I find I miss your company in very inconvenient moments — while reading something too clever, while walking uphill, while arguing with Gregory. Especially then. What have you been reading? Or tormenting?
Yours always —
or at least until the end of this miserable holiday,
— E.B.
P.S. I tried to draw you. It looks nothing like you, but the paper is now very smudged (and very fond.)
Reply from Miss Cressida Cowper to Miss Eloise Bridgerton, October the 16th
The Cowper Townhouse
My dearest Eloise,
You are far too generous with your words — I am quite sure my handwriting is illegible to everyone but you, and you are merely romantic enough to assign it meaning. I envy your time in the country. At least there are sheep and opinions there. I have only furniture and the sound of the clock in the front hall.
I have taken to copying passages fromPamelajust to see how long it takes for my mother to notice. She believes I am reforming. In truth, I am only growing more devious. Your influence, no doubt.
Please do not run mad. Or if you do, leave notes. I find your madness quite palatable in written form.
As for reading, I've returned toThe Sorrows of Young Werther, which is absolutely miserable and therefore feels appropriate. It does a remarkable job of saying very little while feeling everything, which I think you'd admire.
I miss clever company. (And I miss you, too.)
Ever,
— C.C.
P.S. I've not been well these past few days. Something trivial, I'm assured — but the doctor insists on too much rest and not enough gossip. Your letters help.
Eloise read the last line again.
It sat differently from the rest of the letter, like a dropped stitch or a wrong note in a familiar tune. Cressida hardly complained. Certainly not about anythingreal, least of all her health. She once walked half a mile in the rain for tea and a laugh, then insisted the storm had "refined her complexion."
And yet now, Eloise had the dreadful image of her in some silent room, pale and tucked away, with only a maid and pamphlets for company.
"She saidtrivial," Eloise muttered to herself, re-reading the letter, which did nothing to help.
She paced her room twice, then sat at her desk, then stood again, letter still in hand. The fireplace hissed softly, useless and somewhat smug.
This time last year, Eloise would have been looking forward to seeing Penelope. Despite the heartbreak and everything that followed, she still felt the echo of that old companionship in moments she could not quite name. There had been comfort in knowing someone so completely, even when that knowing had started to hurt.
Now, far from London and buried in the soft suffocation of family holiday rituals, the absence of that comfort felt sharper.
Miss Sharma had turned out to be an unexpectedly agreeable companion. She had a calm way of existing that did not require performance, and she rarely offered sympathy unless it was earned. Eloise had been quietly relieved when Anthony had stopped his posturing and confessed his affections at last. If he could manage it, then perhaps even the most impossible feelings could find their shape.
Still, it was not Penelope she found herself missing most.
It had crept up on her. A thought here, a phrase there. Something clever Cressida would have said.
They had only just begun to understand each other. Even so, the thought of her had become a constant interruption. Eloise had even dreamed of her the other night.Rose and sea-salt perfume, pink silk, and a smile made of pearls.
Eloise considered writing back immediately. Some dry, flirtatious line about how the absence of gossip could kill a person, but her fingers wouldn't cooperate. Every draft she began was either too sharp or too soft. She couldn't seem to find the right shape for her worry.
At one point, with barely a breath of thought between ink and paper, she wrote,My dear, I do wish you to come back to me soon.
Eloise stared at it for a moment, horrified, before quickly scribbling it out so violently that the paper tore beneath her pen. Cheeks burning, Eloise folded the letter carefully, smoothed the edges, and quickly tucked it beneath her pillow.
That night, she dreamed of a chaise lounge and a physician with no face.
December, Aubrey Hall
"You may each invite one guest," Violet had said, with the unmistakable cadence of a woman pretending not to be worried about chaos. "Just one. No trades, no last-minute additions, and absolutelynounannounced suitors at the door."
Hyacinth had immediately named two and was still lobbying for a third. Colin said something vague about a philosopher he'd met in Italy, and Benedict looked vaguely at the ceiling before wandering off.
Eloise said nothing.
She sat with her tea, letting the conversation swirl around her, and thought about Cressida.The doctor insists on too much rest.
It wasn't fair, really. Cressida wouldhatea Bridgerton Christmas. All the warmth and merriment and enforced familial cheer. Or maybe she'd love it, secretly, the same way she pretended not to enjoy other things.
Either way, Eloise wanted her there. Which, naturally, meant it was a terrible idea.
Still.
Later that day, Eloise cornered her mother near the west window where the light was forgiving and the footmen rarely lurked.
"If I were to invite someone," Eloise said, trying for nonchalance, "a friend, say… entirely unremarkable, just a girl, not a scandal — would that be… permitted?"
Violet looked up and blinked, slowly. "Is there a reason you've delivered that question as though preparing to confess treason?"
Eloise shifted. "No. Certainly not. I am merely... clarifying."
"You are being theatrical."
"I am being precise."
"You may ask your guest," Violet said, with a thread of amusement creeping into her voice. "Though I cannot imagine why such an 'unremarkable girl' requires quite this level of introduction."
Eloise opened her mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again.
Violet returned to her book with perfect calm.
Eloise hesitated. "It's... It's Miss Cowper."
"Cressida Cowper?"
If Violet was surprised, she had hidden it well. This would be the first time in many years, after all, that Eloise had asked for anyone other than Penelope Featherington.
"She's improved," Eloise said hastily. "Or I have. Or perhaps we're both worse, but in compatible ways."
Violet, after a pause, smiled. "I shall ensure the blue guest room is made ready."
The snow had arrived early that morning. Winter had turned the trees into lace and the drive into a perfect scene from a novel.
Eloise stood in the entrance hall under the grand arch, feigning disinterest while her insides fizzed like a badly corked bottle of champagne.
The Cowper's carriage finally turned the bend of the long drive. When Eloise heard the rumble of wheels over packed snow slow, she immediately abandoned her novel to go outside and see.
Cressida emerged first, in white, like winter spun into silk and threaded with silver. Crystals gleamed at her throat and along the hem of her cloak like frozen dew, and her hair, swept up and adorned with delicate pins, shimmered like starlight.
Eloise couldn't breathe.
It was the sort of entrance a villainess made in the first chapter. The kind that made everyone look twice and reassess their allegiances. A gust of wind caught Cressida's cloak just so, and she lifted her chin with practiced grace, looking every bit the heroine of someone's secret.
Eloise ran.
She forgot to wait for the footman. Forgot her gloves. She crossed the snowy stones in three strides and stopped just short of barreling into her.
"Cre… Miss Cowper! You look—" Eloise said, blinking, dizzy. "You look ridiculous."
"Is that so?" Cressida asked, smiling far, far too brightly. "I was told it wasfestive."
Eloise flushed, then leaned in to kiss her cheek. The barest brush, but it was warm against Cressida's skin — and deliberate.
Cressida's eyes widened. "Miss Bridgerton," she whispered. "You greet all your guests in this way?"
"Only the well-dressed ones," Eloise said. Her ears burned.
Behind them, Lady Cowper stepped down from the carriage with far less elegance, clutching her shawl and muttering about frostbite.
"Oh dear, could Lord Cowper not attend as well?" Violet asked. She'd quickly descended the steps with practiced welcome.
"Regrettably detained," Lady Cowper said, voice brittle. "A business matter he could not neglect."
Araminta's eyes drifted to Cressida and then far too obviously to Colin, who was halfway across the drive, having just emerged from the stables.
"I do hope Mr. Bridgerton finds Miss Cowper looking well," she added, with a faint smile that might have passed for innocent if Violet hadn't been watching.
Violet's expression did not change, but a subtle frown pinched her brow.
Colin, oblivious, waved cheerfully at the group before heading inside.
"Shall we?" Violet said coolly. "The drawing room is warm, and I suspect there's a queue forming for introductions."
As the footmen collected the luggage, Cressida leaned toward Eloise again.
"Did your mother justfrownat Mama?"
"She did," Eloise said, beaming. "You've made an excellent first impression."
"And what sort of impression have I made on you?"
Eloise glanced at Cressida, at her crystal hairpins, her snow-kissed lashes, and her smirk only just barely contained.
"You'd better come inside before I do something dangerous."
Snow pressed soft and white against the windows, turning the drawing room into a warm little world of candlelight and fabric rustle and sisters murmuring over embroidery and board games.
The air smelled faintly of oranges, beeswax, and the evergreen garlands that hung above the hearth.
Eloise sat curled in a corner window seat, half-listening to Hyacinth and Francesca debate the rules of bullet pudding, her gloves off, a half-eaten sugared almond tucked inside her cheek.
Beside her, Cressida sat in a pale blue gown that shimmered with each small movement, like snow under moonlight.
After three days at Aubrey Hall, the two of them had settled into this arrangement. In their own little orbit, a world carved out in the edges of the Bridgerton household. Sometimes someone would call them over. Sometimes they would oblige. Often they wouldn't.
"You've made your room entirely your own," Eloise said at last.
The comment was meant to be approving, though household rearrangement was not something she typically admired. Change, in any form, made her skin itch. But when she had gone to see Cressida's guest chambers, there had been something different in the air. A shawl draped just so over the chair, a cluster of flowers that hadn't come from the household arrangements.
It made Eloise oddly glad. As though Cressida wasn't just visiting, but trying, quietly and deliberately, to belong.
"I asked my maid to have the bed moved away from the window," Cressida said, still watching the fire. "It was too bright in the mornings. And I rearranged the writing desk. It was facing a wall. I hate that."
Eloise nodded, understanding deeply. "Did you always?"
"Always," Cressida said. Her voice dipped, uncharacteristically melancholic. "But I never had one of my own before."
There was a quiet moment.
"I... I used to be afraid of winter," she added, softly. "The stillness of it. How everything stops. But here, it's not so dreadful."
"Because we're all trapped indoors and forced to socialize?" Eloise quipped.
Cressida didn't laugh. She frowned, not dramatically, but just enough for Eloise to feel the weight of her own childish words. She shifted, suddenly aware of the sugared almond in her mouth, and chewed it properly.
"No," Cressida said after a pause. "Because it's honest. Everything slows down. The pretense thins out. If something survives it? It might... it might actually be real."
Eloise blinked. "That's surprisingly poetic coming from you."
Cressida looked as though she meant to respond, but changed her mind. Her mouth tensed, and she went quiet.
The fire crackled. In the corner, Hyacinth shrieked about someone cheating at dice and was swiftly shushed by Violet.
Eloise felt the shift too late. Only now did she realize Cressida hadn't been speaking in generalities. And Eloise, in her usual, unthinking way, had chosen to be clever instead of kind.
Cressida regarded Eloise then. Not with anger, nor even disappointment."You were so cruel," she said softly.
Eloise's chest tightened. "Which time?"
Cressida didn't look at her.
"You said you'd rather die than be my friend."
Eloise winced. "That does sound like me."
"You mocked me for not being clever," Cressida continued. "You did just now, in fact. You speak as if no one else reads, as if no one else thinks." Her voice remained even. "The Ton assumes I am brainless. I learned early not to correct them."
"You are not brainless," Eloise said, quickly. "I know that now."
Cressida's jaw tightened. "But you believed it."
"I..." Eloise's voice stuck in her throat. She pressed her hands together. "I am sorry. You are right."
The words hung in the air, heavier than anything before.
"You thought I had nothing in me," Cressida accused. "That is what hurt."
Eloise looked down. "Yes," she said. I thought you were dull. And ornamental. And entirely pleased to be both. You surprised me. That isn't something I forgive easily."
Cressida tilted her head. "So this is forgiveness?"
"No," Eloise said, heaving a harsh sigh. "This is me telling you that I was wrong."
Cressida studied her. Her expression did not change, but her gaze sharpened, as though narrowing in on the exact shape of the apology.
"Is this what happened between you and Penelope?" she asked.
Eloise inhaled too sharply. The air scraped her throat on the way down.
For a moment, she said nothing. She should have expected it.Of course Cressida had been thinking of her. Of Penelope. Of what had come before.
"Yes," Eloise said finally, because it was true. "Except I didn't see it, not then. I thought I was the one being hurt."
"And now?"
Eloise hesitated. "Now I think I was the one who didn't listen. I loved her, or thought I did. But I only ever saw what I needed from her. I never asked if she could give it."
Cressida looked down, her expression unreadable. "And yet you made me beg for your attention."
Eloise swallowed. "I know."
The fire cracked between them. Somewhere down the hall, the distant sound of Hyacinth laughing floated through the corridor, muffled by doorframes and velvet.
"I didn't come to you looking for something," Eloise said. "It just… happened. But I've been cruel. I have. Not just in what I said but in how I thought of you. And you still came back."
"I didn't come back for you," Cressida said, her tone almost idle. "I came because your mother invited me. And because this house is beautiful. And because I thought I might finally be left alone long enough to finish a book."
Eloise laughed humorlessly, feeling struck, until Cressida added, "But I did stay. For you."
"Why?" Eloise asked, barely above a whisper.
Cressida shrugged. It was small and deliberate, a gesture that said she had asked herself the same question and found no neat answer.
"I don't know," she said. "Maybe I wanted to see what you would do. If you would be different. If I would."
Eloise looked down again, not out of shame, but out of something closer to humility. The kind that does not come naturally to girls raised in large, well-lit homes with too many opinions and no real consequences.
"I don't want to be the girl I was with Penelope," Eloise said. "I am trying to be better than that."
Her voice turned gentle. "With you."
The fire had burned low now, soft and gold. The walls around them seemed to breathe.
Cressida's eyes softened, just barely. "You have always been sharp," she said. "But sharpness without direction only wounds."
Eloise nodded once. "Then I hope I've stopped pointing myself at the wrong people."
For the first time, Cressida smiled — not faint or forced, but real, though she looked away before Eloise could quite catch it.
Eloise sat forward slightly, hands clasped in her lap. Her voice dropped.
"Will you forgive me?"
There was a long pause. Cressida's eyes moved from the fire to the window, then back to Eloise.
"I might," she said. "If you ask again tomorrow."
Eloise exhaled — not relief, not quite. Something slower.
"I will," she promised.
Cressida and Eloise passed several winter evenings beside that fire, but tonight, the room was theirs alone.
The flames had burned low, casting a soft amber light. Outside, snow fell in steady silence. The house had long gone quiet, wrapped in the hush that came only after the last lamps had been extinguished.
They sat on the hearthrug, skirts pooled carelessly around them, a forgotten tea tray cooling nearby. Eloise had a book in her lap. Cressida sat behind her, quietly braiding her hair, fingers moving with slow, deliberate care. Cressida's hands were warm and sure, her knuckles brushing Eloise's shoulders each time she crossed a strand. The fire caught little gold flecks in her rings.
Eloise cleared her throat. "Shall I begin?"
"Please do," Cressida murmured, close enough that Eloise could feel the whisper of it at her neck.
Eloise opened the worn copy and began to read, voice low:
"Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her."
She paused. Then turned her head slightly, just enough to catch Cressida's eye.
"Does that sound familiar?"
Cressida gave a quiet breath of amusement. Her fingers didn't pause. "To whom?"
"To you. You are, after all, handsome. Clever. Rich. Entirely unbothered."
Cressida smirked, but she said nothing.
"Then again," Eloise went on, "you could say the same of me. A handsome heiress of good breeding, emotionally inaccessible, widely misunderstood by critics and siblings alike—"
"Widely," Cressida murmured.
They shared a quiet laugh. The braid had reached the base of Eloise's neck. Cressida didn't tie it. She let her hand rest there instead.
"You're good at that," Eloise said.
"My maid taught me," Cressida replied. "When I was small. I used to undo her work just to try it myself."
"You must have been intolerable."
"Without question."
Eloise turned the page, but Cressida spoke again before she could continue.
"My parents did not permit books."
Eloise stilled. She looked back, and saw something different in Cressida's expression. Not sadness, exactly, but distance.
"I wasn't allowed to eat what I liked, or read, or speak above a certain tone. When I was twelve, I feigned illness for a week so I could finishPamelain secret."
"That is barbaric," Eloise said. Her voice caught.
"They said it was unbecoming. Reading made my face strange. I frowned too much when I concentrated. I looked," Cressida hesitated, "hungry."
Eloise frowned in realization. "That is why he didn't come. Your father."
Cressida did not answer at first. Then she nodded, slowly.
"He does not approve of your family," she said. "He said this invitation was beneath us."
Eloise reached up and took her hand, the one resting at her neck.
"I hate that your house isn't a happy one," Eloise said quietly.
Cressida's voice was scarcely more than breath. "This is the most comfortable I've ever been."
Eloise did not look back, but she held her hand a little tighter.
"I think I shall call on you when we return to London," Eloise murmured.It was both a threat and a promise.
Outside, the snow drifted slowly past the glass. The fire hissed softly, shifting low in the grate.
"Read to me again," Cressida said.
Eloise did.
That evening, the air between Lady Bridgerton, Lady Cowper, and their daughters had turned brittle.
Violet stirred her tea with graceful composure. Lady Cowper sat stiff and upright across from her, inspecting her cup as though it had given offence.
Cressida sat beside Eloise on the settee, hands folded too neatly in her lap. The tension radiated from her in the kind of stillness that must be practiced over years. A posture honed for endurance.
The conversation had remained pleasant. Until it had not.
"I must say, Cressida," Lady Cowper said, lightly. "I do hope you showed restraint at dinner this evening. One would hate for Mr. Bridgerton to see you looking... overindulged. That is, if you've any wish to keep his interest."
A clink of porcelain, but Cressida did not flinch.
But Eloise remembered the library.They said I looked hungry.
Eloise set her cup down with careful precision.
"Well," she said, coolly, "it would be rather difficult for Colin to see anything at all, given how much time he's spent chasing Lord Fife's dog across the lawn."
Violet looked up sharply. So did Cressida.
Lady Cowper blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
Eloise smiled, bright and bladed. "Only that Colin hasn't shown any remarkable interest in anyone lately. Perhaps he is too full from dinner himself."
Cressida's breath hitched beside her. She was still sitting very still.
Lady Cowper's expression darkened. "That is a most unbecoming tone, Miss Bridgerton."
"And your comment was a most unbecoming cruelty," Eloise replied. "We are having tea, not an auction."
No one could speak for several moments.
Lady Cowper turned to Violet, finally, aghast. "Is this the sort of speech you permit your daughters to make in company?"
Violet set her tea aside.
"I believe my daughter has said quite enough," she said evenly. "Eloise, I think it is time you retired for the evening."
Eloise rose without resistance, though not before glancing toward Cressida, who remained perfectly still, her expression unreadable.
"Good night," Eloise said, quiet.
She turned and left the room.
At the top of the stairs, she looked back.
Violet was watching her. And in her mother's usually composed face there was the faintest trace of thought. Not disapproval nor alarm.
Perhaps consideration.
It was late when Eloise finally calmed down enough to get into bed. Before that she'd changed twice. Brushed her hair for no reason. Considered writing a letter and abandoned it halfway through. The house had long gone quiet.
It was past midnight when she heard it. A soft rustle beneath the door.
Eloise sat up.
She crossed the floor in stockings, the wood cold beneath her feet, and knelt to retrieve the folded scrap of paper lying at the threshold.
She opened it slowly, her hands steady, though they felt as though they ought not be.
Come to the library.
- C.